


Kuchnia

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Baking, Bickering, Brock's shitty childhood, Caretaking, Cooking, Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff, Foster Care, HYDRA Husbands, Illnesses, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Life, Not Beta Read, Old Married Couple, Permanent Injury, Project Insight (Marvel), Serious Injuries, Slice of Life, Vignette, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Five times Jack cooked for Brock, and one time Brock made a culinary attempt of his own.A love letter to Polish cuisine, domesticity and terrible people being soft together.





	1. Rosół

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosół is a traditional Polish meat broth. It is usually made with chicken, although beef and veal can be used too. It is commonly accompanied by fine, home-made noodles. Rosół is considered an excellent cure for the cold.

Jack can hear Brock before he sees him, a rasping cough with a seriously disgusting phlegmy undertone anticipating his arrival in the kitchen. He’s slowly making his way down the dark hallway, limping a little from the still-healing bullet wound in his calf.

The mission was a shitshow from start to finish, bad intel leaving them stranded in Kamchatka for two weeks, giving Brock ample time to come down with a nasty cold on top of his injuries.

Jack has been staying in Brock’s shitty brownstone apartment for a good couple days now, because Brock is a whiny pissbaby when ill and Jack doesn’t get paid enough for how much gas it takes to drive his old pickup over to Brock’s place whenever he receives a text demanding food or painkillers or company.

Brock has been spending most of his days slipping in and out of sleep, exhaustion finally taking its toll after a fortnight of trying to keeping STRIKE from going at each other’s throats, all six of them crammed into some shitty Russian safehouse while temperatures outside drop below negative thirty degrees Celsius, and Jack finds himself itching to get something cooking on the antique-looking gas stove. He’s not actually hungry, but Brock’s been feeling really under the weather today, and Jack’s not good with words, instead choosing hearty, well-seasoned things to show that he cares.  

The kitchen is poorly equipped and far from how clean Jack would like it, all a testament to Brock’s complete lack of culinary skill, but there’s one good pot and some moderately wilted root vegetables, and the neighbourhood butcher shop is ran by an old Ukrainian man who knows what makes a good soup.

Jack makes a grocery run as soon as he hears Brock snoring and sniffling into the pillow, coming back with stock bones and meats from the butcher’s and home-made capellini from the Italian deli a block down. He washes out the pot, annoyed with the layer of dust and grime that has managed to accumulate from years of disuse, and starts his rosół.

A good hour later Brock pads quietly into the kitchen, dressed in flannel pyjamas and a dressing robe that has seen better days, and announces his arrival with a fit of nasty sneezes. He looks completely and utterly miserable, skin sallow and dark bruises underneath his eyes showing where the dim kitchen light reaches his face. He’s all stiff muscle and a rat’s nest of hair as he shuffles closer to Jack, bleary-eyed and still half asleep.

‘What’cha got cooking there?’ Brock mumbles, gently nudging Jack in the side to move him away from the stove and peek inside the pot. He backs away abruptly when steam hits him directly in the face.

‘What the fuck Jack, is this actual bones?’ he inquires, confused but too tired for one of his cranky outbursts.

‘How do you think stock is made?’ Jack replies, still surprised by how little Brock knows when it comes to day-to-day things like cooking. He should know better, hanging out at Brock’s entirely too often. The man still lives like a bachelor despite pushing fifty and having been far from single for quite some time now, and Jack longs for them take the next logical step. He wants this more than anything, to get Brock out of this shitty apartment and into his place in the suburbs, to have this simple domesticity that he suspects Brock might want too, somewhere deep down under his mess of insecurities hidden under more insecurities hidden beneath a very attractive bone structure and too much bravado.

For now though, Jack settles for making soup.

After a while of pondering, Brock finally answers with a ‘Dunno really, stick one of those lil’ spice cube thingies in some hot water and see what gives?’ and Jack can’t help but crack a smile.

‘You’re terrible. And yes, it’s real bones.’

‘Who’s the poor bastard? Please tell me it’s Rogers, and we’re eating him to gain his fucked up superpowers. Like Vikings did.’ Brock sounds strangely serious as he entertains the notion of eating another human being, and Jack can’t help but wonder how much he has yet to find out about what exactly is going on in Brock’s head in those quiet moments. 

‘You’ve been watching too much daytime TV. Bed rest is up tomorrow. And no, it’s not Rogers. It’s marrow bones, from a cow, you know. Beef ribs and chuck, and a couple of chicken thighs too’ he explains.

‘Damn, I was really hoping it was Cap. Hate that bastard.’

‘I know you do. Now go take a shower, you smell gross. And get dressed while you’re at it, that robe looks like you found it in the dumpster. Soup will be ready in an hour.’ The broth is almost done but Jack still has vegetables to add and noodles to boil and he’s hoping that the grocer’s around the corner has fresh parsley, since he forgot to pick it up earlier and that dried shit Brock keeps on his meagre spice rack smells more like mothballs than herbs.

With a sniffle of acknowledgement Brock shuffles out of the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, turning around to face Jack.

‘Hey Jackie?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You know you don’t have to do this, right?’

‘I know’ is all Jack can say and to be honest, he hates that sometimes Brock still thinks Jack is there for him out of some sense of obligation, rather than simply because he wants to.

‘How are you so good to me?’ Brock asks quietly, moving closer and tentatively wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist, after all this time still not used to sharing this kind of quiet intimacy. He rests his head against Jack’s chest, and Jack can’t help but run his fingers through Brock’s messy hair, not bothered by the fact that his hand comes away feeling slightly greasy and mostly tacky from leftover hair gel.

‘I just like you better when you’re not spending every goddamn second complaining about being cold and hungry’ he says, knowing that real honesty about whatever they’ve got going on can be too much for Brock sometimes, instead choosing to slip back into their comfortable back-and forth that’s all jokes and jabs without any real punch behind them.

‘So you do like me?’ Brock asks, and once again Jack’s not sure if he’s being serious, but the question feels delicate, the concern there real.

‘You really shouldn’t be asking that by now’ he replies, trying to reassure rather than chide.

Brock seems content with the answer, pulling away and flashing one of his toothy smiles, genuine and happy despite how worn out he seems. ‘Still think you’re just trying to fatten me up so you get better dowry when we get hitched’ he concludes, as always, knowing better.

Jack tries his best not to let surprise show on his face, mindful of the fact that it might just be the painkillers and an overdose of largely inaccurate period drama talking. For a split second he thinks about asking if Brock is actually being serious right now, or if it’s all just a part of their usual banter. Something tells him that it’s not, but right now is not the best time to be having this kind of conversation. The kitchen is warm beneath the yellow glow of an old pendant lamp and even older streetlights outside, and Jack wants the mood to last.

‘That’s really not how dowry works. No more History Channel for you’ is what he settles for instead.


	2. Drożdżówki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drożdżówki are sweet buns made with baked, yeast-leavened dough, typically containing more sugar, fat and yeast than regular bread dough. Available in a variety of shapes and fillings, drożdżówki are a Polish breakfast staple, found in each and every neighbourhood bakery and corner shop.

‘What the fuck is this supposed to accomplish?’ Brock grumbles from where he’s stretched out on the sofa, feet resting in Jack’s lap and gaze glued to the TV. It’s late, but Brock has been restless lately, an unexpected shuffle in SHIELD admin fucking with the desk job part of his CO stint, making him slip into those uneasy, nervous moods that won’t let him sleep. He’s opted to tire himself out by watching muted reruns of some shitty baking competition, eventually concluding that the stuff Jack makes any given Sunday morning looks infinitely better anyway. For how much Brock claims not to care about baking, the show is stressing him out, any plans of dozing off on the sofa, aided by Jack’s clever fingers kneading away at the tense muscle in his ankles  _just right_ , long forgotten.

Brock attempts to get Jack’s attention by jabbing the toes of his left foot into Jack’s thigh and kicking the right one into the vague direction of the book Jack is holding in his hand while the other continues its soothing ministrations.

‘Jack, Jackie look, are you seeing this? This bastard just put some nasty grey shit in his cake. And it was starting to look good for once.’ Finally, Jack’s annoyance reaches its tipping point and he puts his book down, both hands clamping down on Brock’s ankles and holding them down firmly.

‘That’s yeast, you idiot. You put it in dough to make it rise. That, or baking powder.’ Jack sounds like he’s explaining basic maths to a particularly dense child, and for some reason Brock feels like testing Jack’s patience. He’s been feeling some kind of weird way lately, agitated and angry and reckless all around, like he’s spoiling for a fight, waiting for one of their usual conversations to turn sour and mean.

‘Isn’t yeast like germs or some other kinda nasty shit?’ he starts innocently enough, waiting for Jack to get fed up with his culinary ignorance.

‘Technically it’s fungus. And it’s not nasty. That bread you had with dinner? There was yeast in it. Didn’t seem to bother you in the slightest.’ Jack’s tone is measured, patient, like he already knows that he has to diffuse the situation as soon as possible or one of them will end up sleeping on the couch. His hands are back to rubbing and poking at Brock’s feet, fingers digging into the heels, as he’s trying to bring Brock down from whatever rush of nervous energy seems to be setting him on edge.

It seems to be working, as Brock doesn’t immediately go for another jab, instead turning away from the TV, staring daggers straight at the side of Jack’s head. Jack remains unbothered, moving on from Brock’s heels to his instep, easing the tension there.

‘By the way, you’ve still got crumbs on your shirt, you fucking slob’ Jack adds with a smirk when he decides that Brock is back to his usual self, irritable and grumpy but easily placated with a few strategic touches and words. They’re back to where they started, baking show done and the TV playing muted gallons of blood as a scream queen loses her head to a chainsaw, Jack back to his novel and Brock now lost in thought.

‘Ain’t never had cake with yeast in it’ he states after a while, just when Jack was ready to forget that the conversation even happened.

Brock is not a picky eater. There is a fair few dishes and ingredients that he seems to be unfamiliar with, but the leading cause for that situation seems to be his low maintenance lifestyle rather than any particular dislikes. Jack’s been cooking a lot more since Brock moved in with him, trying to make things from scratch as often as time allows. So far, Brock’s been incredibly enthusiastic over everything and anything Jack’s made, eating with the appetite of a man twice his size, always finding room for dessert.

The biggest surprise perhaps had been Brock’s untameable sweet tooth, Jack catching him making sneaky attempts at cakes and cookies that were supposed to last the whole week on numerous occasions. The fact that Brock has never tried a yeast-leavened cake is a bit of a revelation.

‘You telling me you’ve never had a sweet roll? Or babka? Challah maybe?’ Jack inquires, completely unprepared for the turn the conversation is about to take.

‘Not like I ever got spoiled with fresh baked goods, back in care, you know?’ Brock goes quiet, sombre all of a sudden, like he does whenever he reminisces about his childhood. Jack knows it’s a tender spot for Brock, so he doesn’t push him to continue, trusting Brock to say only as much as he needs to right then.

‘Told you already that most homes take in kids just for bennies. Make pretty good coin off of it, keeping a handful of brats under their roof, having them survive on scraps. You know what, Jackie, I don’t think I had a home-cooked meal once, back then. Not before you came around.’ Jack wants to hold Brock so bad. To take him in his arms and shield him from whatever he’s been through, because despite being all charm and strength and impressive muscle Brock seems so fucking vulnerable in moments like these. So similar to how he was when they first met back in the Army. When Jack realised that he wanted to be more than friends and Brock was all _fag this_ and _queer that_ when Jack just wanted to treat him right, for the first time in Brock’s entire goddamn life.

He knows better though, aware that Brock doesn’t always appreciate being touched when he gets into this strange headspace of his, so Jack lets him continue.

‘Actually, wait, that’s not true. Angela made brownies once. You know, that crackhead they placed me with for a while when I was eight, nine maybe? She really wasn’t that bad except for the, you know, crack habit. Brownies were fucking awful though, all goopy on the inside but not in the good way.’ Brock pauses for a while, lost in the memories.

‘Might’ve been kinda raw, now that I think of it. Still, got me looking at her like she was the best goddamn mom in the entire fucking world. Other than that though, it was good old Kraft Dinner all day every day, eighty cents a pop. One hell of a deal when you got entirely too fucking many mouths to feed.’

‘Explains your carb problem’ Jack quips, trying to lighten the mood without coming across overprotective, knowing well that Brock appreciates a good-natured jab better than coddling.

‘Ain’t a problem. Gotta load up on calories if you wanna get good build. Bulk and cut, you know’ Brock demonstrates by lifting his t-shirt up to his neck, revealing a frankly impressive six pack and the sharp jut of his hips. He has this shit-eating grin plastered on his face like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and as much as Jack wants to be contrary just for the sake of it, he can’t help but indulge Brock whenever he gets like this, honest and open and truly at home.

‘If that’s what you wanna believe’ Jack remarks, failing to feign disinterest as he leans down and presses his lips to tan skin.

 

* * *

 

‘What’s all this?’ Brock asks, dumbfounded, as he surveys their kitchen. There’s trays and plates and clean dishcloths on most available surfaces, holding neat little pastries with a variety of toppings. Jack is moving between the oven, the counters and the stove, stirring and kneading, at ease in this organised chaos of his. It’s strange seeing him like this, for how fastidiously clean he usually is, hair messy and a smear of flour on his cheekbone, but Brock guesses that the scale of whatever he’s in the midst of necessitates a bit of a mess.

‘Drożdżówki’ Jack replies like the jumble of sounds is supposed to be the most self-explanatory thing in the world. He’s spooning what looks like vanilla pudding onto flat circles of dough, placing it in the hollows in the middle. He then arranges slices of fruit on top of whatever he's making, and sprinkles the finished product with a generous amount of streusel. Brock knows what streusel is, having thoroughly enjoyed Jack’s _jabłecznik_ before, but right now he’s at loss.

‘A _what_ now?’ is all he can manage, since it’s way too early in the day for foreign words and all this  _patisserie_ nonsense.

‘Yeast buns. Sweet rolls, if you will. You’ve got vanilla custard ones here and quark and raisin over on the table. The ones in the oven are with cherry jam, apple and cinnamon is over there, rising, _don’t you dare touch that_ , and apricot is still in the works’ Jack explains without pausing what he’s doing, rows of neat little _somethings_ coming together at an impressive speed.

‘We having family over today? Fuck, Jackie, that’s probably enough to feed all your siblings and cousins and all their goddamn spawn.’

‘Nah. They’re for you. Might take some up to mom’s if we visit on Saturday, but for now, knock yourself out.’

‘So you’re telling me you’ve been up since ass crack of dawn turning our kitchen into a part-time bakery _just because_ I’ve never had cake with fungus in it before? That’s some fucked up priorities right there’ Brock concludes, seeming not to mind in the slightest as he reaches for a quark and raisin swirl. He devours it in a couple bites, reaching for a vanilla custard bun next. He hops up on the counter, not bothered by the faint layer of flour which seems to be covering the whole kitchen, and takes a big bite.

Jack seems to be done with his apricots, covering the drożdżówki with a cloth, leaving them to rise. He shuffles things around, taking a batch of cherry jam knots out of the oven and putting in a tray full of apple-filled bear claws. When he’s done, he slots himself between Brock’s dangling legs, leaving floury hand prints on Brock’s sweatpants where he grabs at his thighs.

‘My priorities are my own goddamn problem’ Jack states sternly. ‘First of all, I love you. And second, it’s a fucking criminal offence that you’ve never had drożdżówki before’ he says, pressing a kiss to Brock’s shoulder and swatting him gently on the chest to get crumbs of streusel off his tank top.

‘Love you too’ Brock mumbles around a mouthful of dough. ‘Might love these just a lil’ bit more though.’

 


	3. Pierogi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierogi are filled dumplings made by wrapping unleavened dough around a savory or sweet filling and cooking in boiling water. Sauerkraut and mushroom pierogi are a must-have at Christmas, and fruit-filled ones are served with sour cream on hot summer days, either as a main dish or dessert.

They don’t get to see Jack like this, any of them. STRIKE, SHIELD, HYDRA, whatever. All they see is a gun for hire, another one of the endless nameless grunts doing dirty work for some fat suit they’ve never once seen the face of. Jack doesn’t talk much when they’re out in the field, preferring to sit back and observe, refusing to take the bait when mean, thoughtless snark gets thrown his way. It doesn’t happen much when it’s just STRIKE Alpha out on their own, years of camaraderie having made them well aware of each other’s quirks, but the fuckers from Bravo and Charlie who join them on bigger ops walk on thin fucking ice with what shit they try to start when Jack won’t let himself get dragged into their crude, moronic nonsense.

Brock prefers not to intervene though, knowing damn well that Jack can hold his own, not wanting to risk accusations of preferential treatment towards his SIC.

It only happened once, Rogers long defrosted and showing his true colours, a reckless Brooklyn punk coming through from underneath the blond-haired blue-eyed holier-than-thou façade. They’d been sparring, and then drinking, Jack opting to head home rather than go out. He needs time alone sometimes, time to decompress and regroup, so Brock sends him off with a quick peck on the cheek and a promise not to get too rowdy, knowing full well than he’s probably not going to stay too late himself, preferring sleep-warmed sheets and Jack’s solid bulk pressed against his back to crawling from bar to bar with a bunch of horrendously messy drunks.

They’re holed up in one of their usual haunts, Alpha and Echo and a couple guys from medical, giving the bartenders a run for their money. Brock is walking up to the counter to order another round of shots when Rogers corners him, cheeks flushed and breath reeking of whisky and cheap beer. Brock didn’t know Cap could get drunk at all, but he seems totally and utterly fucked, slurring his words as he asks, ‘Hey Rumlow, where’s the big guy? Y’know, huge bastard, that attack dog of yours. You let him off his leash?’

It takes a while to register what Rogers is actually saying, but the moment it hits, Brock acts on autopilot, delivering a vicious backhand to one of those rosy fucking red cheeks.

Rogers stumbles back slightly, looking absolutely idiotic with that confused frown of his, and despite knowing that it’s probably just the alcohol bringing out Cap's mean streak, Brock doesn’t have the patience to be the responsible one right then, to diffuse and reason and forgive. He wants to scream, to throw punches and taste blood and go all _That’s my fucking boyfriend, you asshole_ like they do in the movies, to say _my partner_ and _mine mine mine,_ and maybe _husband_ would be nice too, one day, to kiss Jack stupid and make sure Rogers is looking.

Instead he turns and leaves, trying to avoid making more of a scene. Even though these days he’s far from the mess of homophobia and paranoia and self-hatred that he used to be, it simply wouldn’t be fair to Jack. Because despite Jack being confident in his preferences, in that quiet way that he’s confident in most things that he is and does, refusing to entertain any of Brock’s _no homo_ bullshit, he's not exactly loud and proud either. He knows what he’s got with Brock, keeping things honest and real when Brock’s head gets to him and he’s twenty-something and stupid all over again, but he firmly believes that it’s their personal business, Rogers being the last person who should be able to comment on it.

And deep down, maybe Brock wants to keep Jack to himself too.

Because they don’t get to see him like this, sweater sleeves rolled up to the elbows and some stupid novelty apron on, looking out of the kitchen window at the pouring rain as he puts together rows and rows of little half-circles with a ruffled trim. Brock doesn’t know what exactly Jack is doing, but from his spot on the sofa he has a good view over the breakfast counter and at Jack’s hands, all elegant fingers and a slight tinge of blue where veins show underneath pale skin.

Methodically, Jack scoops, folds and pinches, scrapes a bowl clean and moves on to the next one. One of his old, oversized pots is boiling on the stove and batch after batch goes in, cooking for a while and ending up laid out on a serving dish drizzled in melted butter. The task is arduous, sheets of dough seeming to multiply and stretch into infinity as Jack rolls them out, paper thin, and cuts out circles with an upturned glass.

Brock would offer to help, for all that his sub-par cooking skills are worth, but he knows Jack needs to do this alone.

Jack’s mother has been unwell lately and he’s been retreating into his quiet moods more and more often. The weekend drives to the hospital are wearing him thin, the sombre gatherings at his twin sister’s house not helping much. Janice and her husband are always there, and so are Julie and Jenny, Debra Rollins’ strange sense of humour showing in the alliteration. Other than that, it’s always a different selection of friends and relatives, all passing through the house with hushed voices and grim looks on their faces.

Jack tries to keep the family together with soup, _barszcz_ and _żur_ and _krupnik,_ with _gołąbki_ and _gulasz_ , with loaves of freshly baked _keks_ and _piernik_. With anything that can be made in bulk, packed up in Tupperware and brought over to Janice’s place, with Brock in tow to help carry the endless plastic containers. Anything that makes people feel warm on the inside, makes them forget their sadness for a while.

Jack takes a batch of doughy little somethings out of the pot, arranges them flat on a plate and pours a spoonful of butter over then. The next portion isn’t going in immediately after, water left to simmer rather than boil, so he must be taking a break.

Brock takes this as a window of opportunity to make his way to the kitchen, to gently slot himself next to Jack and put an arm around his waist, lean his head on Jack’s shoulder.

‘What are these called?’ Brock asks, trying to coax Jack out of his stern silence. He’s genuinely interested, always curious to find out the ins-and-outs of whatever Jack is making, but he also knows that cooking is easy for Jack to talk about. That it’s one of the quickest routes to bring Jack from whatever thoughts he’s stranded in back into the _here and now_ of their kitchen, warm and clean and _theirs._

‘Pierogi’ Jack answers. ‘Dumplings. Dough is just eggs, flour and water.’

He points to the various plates and platters, explaining what is to be found on each one. ‘You’ve got sauerkraut and mushroom here. This is _ruskie_ , potato and quark and onion, and pork mince isn’t done yet’ he says, patiently, as Brock picks up one of each, nibbling away.

‘What about these?’ he inquires, gesturing towards a heap of odd, purplish ones, their bubbly texture and intense colour making them look like nothing Brock has tried before.

‘That’s sweet ones. With blueberries.’

‘Why do you put butter on them?’

‘So that they don’t stick to one another. Once they’re stuck, that’s it, you can throw the whole batch in the garbage. Could use oil, but butter brings out the flavour more.’

Brock finishes munching on the two pierogi he was holding, licking the residue of butter from his fingers, when Jack asks, ‘You hungry?’

‘You know damn well I can’t ever say no to your cooking. I’ll have seven each of the savoury ones. Oh, and maybe three with blueberries too.’

Jack sets to preparing Brock’s meal, piling a dinner plate high with pierogi, adding extra butter and a generous helping of fried minced onion that he produces from a small pan still sitting on the stove. He puts three blueberry dumplings on a smaller dish, garnishing them with a heaping spoonful of sour cream. He places the food next to where Brock has climbed up onto the counter, consistently refusing to sit like a regular human being whenever possible.

Brock whispers a _thank you_ , pulls Jack in for a gentle kiss, and picks up his plate. He holds it with one hand and uses the other one to stab a fork into his dumplings, eating them in one bite. Table manners have never been his forte but to be honest, he doesn’t care, too preoccupied with the sharp, tangy flavours of fillings and the springy texture of dough. He hums around a mouthful of potato and quark, a content little sound, utterly unselfconscious with Jack observing him as he eats, working his way through the plate with unabashed enthusiasm.

The heavy mood seems to be somewhat lifted, Jack always happier whenever he sees Brock or his siblings or anyone at all enjoying what he’s made. He asks Brock, ‘Do you like them?’, as if the answer isn’t obvious enough.

‘They’re perfect’ Brock manages to get out in between bites, a fleck of sour cream stuck to his upper lip. 

‘Marry me’ Jack says, quietly, quiet enough for Brock not to hear over the clinking of his fork against the plate and the frankly disgusting slurping noises he makes as he encounters way more blueberry juice than he was anticipating.

‘Would you look up from your food for one fucking second, you insatiable monster?’ Jack says, louder now, and Brock turns in his direction, a questioning look on his face.

‘I’m trying to propose to you here’ Jack continues. ‘Been thinking about it a lot recently. Really want mom to be there, while she still can make it.’

Brock nods, slowly, as he sets down the empty plate and lets Jack come closer and slot himself between Brock’s legs, taking Brock’s hands in his.

‘Now, will you marry me?’ Jack asks.

‘Gimme ten more of those tasty little bastards and I might just say yes’ Brock replies, and for the first time that day, Jack smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> barszcz - beetroot soup  
> żur - fermented rye soup (don't knock it til you've tried it)  
> krupnik - pork broth with barley groats  
> gołąbki - cabbage rolls filled with pork mince and rice  
> gulasz - beef stew seasoned with paprika  
> keks - pound cake with dried fruit and nuts  
> piernik - gingerbread loaf cake


	4. Gęś faszerowana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gęś faszerowana, or stuffed goose, is a signature dish of Polish cuisine, having graced the tables of noble homes across the country from as early as XVI century. Nowadays, Poland is the largest producer of goose meat in Europe, the Kołuda oat-fed geese universally recognised for their excellent flavour. Goose stuffed with barley groats cooked in vegetable and mushroom stock, mixed with simmered giblets and seasoned with a generous amount of parsley, dill and fried onion is considered a luxury meal, reserved for occasions such as Christmas, St Martin's Day and weddings.

Janice’s kitchen is bright and spacious, furnished in shades of green and grey, with a stunning view over a sprawling garden, dahlias just starting to blossom right outside the window. On any other day, it would be tranquil, idyllic even, Brock muses as he makes far-reaching plans for Jack and himself. As much as he likes it at Jack’s place, he wouldn’t be opposed to a bigger backyard.

Right now though, the kitchen is the farthest thing from peaceful, overrun with a small army of oversized Rollins men and miniature Rollins women, all caught up in a carefully choreographed flurry of movement. Debra Rollins is reigning supreme over this organised chaos, her wheelchair parked at the dining table as she is brought items to sample and approve.

She’s been better recently, claiming that the sole reason for her recovery is the fact that her other eldest child is finally settling down.

Just like her son, Debra has startling green eyes, a strange fondness for English nineteenth century novels, and insurmountably high culinary standards. Having deemed each and every catering option unsatisfactory, she had enlisted entirely too many friends and relations of hers to provide for the reception. She doesn’t comment on the fact that Brock’s family isn’t there, content in her kingdom of spices and scents, boiling pots and carefree chatter.

Jack and Janice are preparing the stuffed goose, Jack taking the meat off the bones all in one piece and his twin sister assembling the filling. The two of them are working in companionable silence, both surgically precise in what they’re doing, Jack cutting through ligaments and membranes and Janice chopping through thick bundles of parsley and dill, towering heaps of wild mushrooms.

Brock observes as Debra entertains him with family gossip, currently ribbing away at Greg, whoever Greg may be, and his second wife Amelia, currently absent, when Janice calls him over.

‘C’mon, Brock, make yourself useful’ she requests with a smile, and he enters the whirlwind of movement, feeling at home in the joyful commotion.

 

* * *

 

The preparations take a while to complete and it’s late at night when everything is done, cold cuts and spreads and cakes ready to be served, goose laced up in a neat little corset made up of thread and toothpicks, bound for the oven first thing in the morning. Jack grabs a clean dishcloth and helps Brock with the last few pans he has to dry, placing his hands on Brock’s waist and steering him away from the sink and out of the kitchen when they're done.

A good part of the crowd has already left, the few relatives visiting from out of state headed upstairs to the guest rooms, and only a few sets of tired eyes and small smiles linger on Jack and Brock as they make their way into the living room.  

Jack wraps his arms around Brock’s middle with a soft _Hey mister_ , resting his chin on Brock’s shoulder. He stays there for a while, just holding on, a comforting weight at Brock’s back. He smells like cooking, like stock and roast and herbs, like every white picket fence dream Brock had never had until they swept him off his feet all at once.

‘Ain’t your mister just yet’ Brock teases, knowing full well that he’s been head over heels since day one, no matter how much he’d tried to deny it.

‘Details, darling. Been all mine for quite some time now.’ Brock can’t help but smile at the endearment, letting himself be sappy and stupid for a while. He’s been doing that for a while now, allowing himself these kind of moments, overwhelmed with how _right_ they seem.

‘Thanks for putting up with everything today. You know how mom gets when she has an idea, and Janice and the lot sure aren’t helping. Didn’t plan on you getting dragged into all this’ Jack apologises with a kiss to Brock’s nape, with hands sliding underneath his t-shirt and rubbing small circles over Brock's hipbones.

‘It’s fine. Never had that kind of thing at home, so. It’s real nice.’ Brock gets a kiss on the shoulder in reply, and they stay like that for a while longer, enjoying a moment of quiet.

The silence is interrupted by a loud rumble of Brock’s stomach, dutifully reminding that despite the astronomical quantities of food produced today, they’ve not had the time to actually sit down for dinner.

‘You hungry?’ Jack inquires, ‘I saved you a little bit of everything.’

‘Seems wrong, eating stuff that’s meant for tomorrow.’ Brock isn’t sure if there’s any wedding superstitions related to munching away at the supplies, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

‘Bullshit. You get to sample the food when you order catering. Can’t see why this would be any different.’

‘Like any catering even compares’ Brock states, even though his stomach starts to protest in the earnest. ‘Might be feeling a lil’ bit peckish though. Not like I got to stick my fingers in all the pots the way you did’.

‘C’mon then, lemme take care of that.’ Jack grabs Brock by the hand and leads him back into the warm glow of the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

The ceremony itself is a quick courthouse affair, over in the blink of an eye. Brock has always been the bragging type, but never about Jack, never so openly, yet he can’t help a rush of pride as he walks outside the city hall holding Jack’s hand, strangers stopping to take a look, to smile and congratulate.

Jack looks so damn handsome, hair slicked back and shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a red carnation boutonniere in his vest pocket, and Brock has a difficult time keeping his hands to himself on the drive back to Janice’s.

As soon as they’re out on the back porch there’s a flurry of rice raining from the air, a few coins mixed in, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and a gaggle of girls in frilly dresses escapes their parents’ hold to pick them up off the ground. There’s tables set with crisp white linen and decorated with candles and freshly cut flowers, mismatched heirloom china and silver cutlery supplied by countless aunts and aunties, fairy lights and big, vintage-looking lightbulbs strung up on the trees. It’s a simple elegance that Brock would never had imagined, unique and homely and _theirs_.

There’s dancing and dining and endless toasts, a perfectly cooked stuffed goose and a damn good _stół wiejski_ , Debra Rollins having brought out her famous quince _nalewka_ from its hiding spot somewhere in the basement. The Rollins clan shows up in near entirety, and STRIKE Alpha are there too, alongside a few guys from Echo and the odd friend from way back in the Army that has somehow managed to stay in touch, and it’s _good_ , the celebration stretching late into the night.

Finally, they’re sent on their way home with an onslaught of inescapable hugs and congratulations, as well as a fair few wolf whistles when Brock steals one last kiss, right there with everyone looking, just because he wants to.

Their designated driver drops them off alongside a startling amount of Tupperware which Debra has managed to sneak off to pack at the very last moment, firmly believing that nothing should go to waste. It’s a surprise how much is left, considering that the Rollins family, big and small and everywhere in between, all have appetites to rival Brock’s. He’s not complaining in the slightest though.

‘You gonna carry me over the threshold, _Mister Rollins-Rumlow_?’ Brock requests, because he’s married and happy and maybe a little bit drunk.

‘My pleasure, _Mister Rollins-Rumlow_ ’ Jack replies, and Brock is expecting to be swept up in a bridal carry. Instead, Jack unceremoniously hefts Brock over one shoulder, delivering a firm smack to his ass just for good measure, picking up the bag of leftovers in the other hand and making his way home.

Once inside, they collapse on the couch in a mess of limbs, making out like teenagers. It’s all lips and tongues and too much spit until they realise how truly tired they both are, slowing down to gentle kisses and wandering hands.

Brock is sitting up against an armrest, legs stretched out and Jack laid out with his face against Brock’s stomach, idle fingers running through Jack's hair, when he is hit with a moment of revelation. Rush of endorphins from the celebration and tipsy giddiness from the _nalewka_ slowly abating, he looks down at Jack, at the glint of gold on his finger against Jack’s dark hair.

‘I’m married. I married you’ he manages, awe-struck and incredulous like he still can’t believe what happened.

‘I know. I was there’ Jack concedes, refusing to lift himself off of Brock’s chest.

‘You’re my husband. For real.’

‘Yeah, and you’re stuck with me for better or for worse.’

‘Good.’

‘Real good’ Jack agrees. ‘We should consummate’ he suggests, pushing himself up on his arms and giving Brock that roguish smirk of his. It doesn’t last long though, as what follows is a barely stifled yawn and a mumbled ‘M’tired though.’

‘Me too’ Brock admits, the fingers of his left hand back in Jack’s hair, his right rubbing circles across Jack’s lower back. ‘Besides, I’ve had my dick up your ass enough times to know that we’re legit’ he adds, simply because he can’t help himself.

Brock only gets a hum in reply, and he settles the conversation with a promise. ‘Gonna give it to ya real good first thing in the morning, Jackie, swear to God I will', he reassures.

Jack accepts by pressing a kiss to Brock’s sternum and just like that he’s out, dozing off with Brock trapped beneath him.

Careful not to jostle his husband, Brock stretches out an arm towards the bag of leftovers conveniently dropped next to the sofa. He pulls it closer, rifling through the plastic containers best as he can with one hand. Finally, he finds the one that he’s in the mood for, pulls it out of the bag and starts nibbling on the contents.

‘Ain’t tired enough not to consummate them cold cuts right here though’ he mutters to himself, barely audible over Jack’s snoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nalewka - aged liquor made by infusing vodka with fruit, herbs and honey  
> stół wiejski - country-style buffet, consisting of local specialities such as cold cuts, sourdough bread, spreads, pickles and more. number one reason to attend a polish wedding
> 
> jack's wedding lük bcuz im weak and it goes with their unintentional vintage/boho vibe bit.ly/2Q9y2RG


	5. Kaszanka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaszanka is a traditional blood sausage, commonly found in Polish and other Eastern European cuisines. It is made of a mixture of pig's blood, pork offal, and buckwheat groats stuffed in a pig intestine. Flavoured with onion, black pepper, and marjoram and often served with mustard and grated horseradish, kaszanka is a firm favourite during the barbecue season and beyond.

A rich scent of smoke and spices wafts over to the back porch of a cabin somewhere in Montana, fading sunlight illuminating Jack where he’s standing over a charcoal barbecue, flipping and shuffling and seasoning. The sun sets early here, disappearing over the towering ridge of the mountains in the late afternoon, and the long hours of dusk seem to stretch into infinity.

Brock is lazing about on the porch swing, propped up on entirely too many cushions, a bottle of beer in one hand, trying his best not to fidget. The summer is dying slowly and there’s a sense of something sinister looming on the horizon, the warm air strangely suffocating. There’s talk of some big op coming up, sleeper agents being put into gear left and right, and for the first time in a long time Brock feels worried about being in his particular line of work. He’s trying to force himself to relax, to banish those thoughts at least until they’re back in DC. He reminds himself of their unspoken rule, of leaving trouble back at home, away from this secret sanctuary of theirs.

His focus is back to Jack, who’s now lounging in a lawn chair, making his steady way through a six pack of some pretentious craft brew he’s so fond of. The barbecue looks abandoned but Brock knows better, knows that Jack runs on some unexplainable internal timer that always tells him when whatever he’s preparing is cooked to perfection.

There’s a smear of charcoal on Jack’s left wrist and he’s wearing a threadbare Army-issue t-shirt and some seriously hideous shorts, and that’s it, that’s late summer for Brock right there. Jack’s got an apron on, one of the stupid novelty ones Brock always gets him whenever he spots one that’s a new level of  _bad_. This particular one says _Trophy Husband_ on it in fancy cursive script, and Brock can’t help but think back to Jack’s expression as he opened the gift.

To the way he said ‘That’s right, ‘cos I’m a goddamn prize’ as he let Brock bend him over the kitchen counter right then and there.

It’s quiet outside, and if Brock listens hard enough he can hear a faint sizzling, a distant screech of a raven, an echo of Jack humming to himself as he cooks. Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice Jack walking up the porch steps carrying platters of grilled meat and vegetables, not until Jack nudges him with one bare foot as he announces that dinner’s ready.

‘Get up, you lazy bastard, or I’m having all this to myself and you can go hungry for all I care’ he declares, despite the obvious fact that Brock is used to always having something to reheat whenever he’s forced to miss dinner.

‘Coming, coming. Wine and dine me, sweetheart’ Brock teases as he pushes his aviators up into his hair.

‘Sixty-nine you while I’m at it too?’

Jack has been feisty recently, rough around the edges, and as much as Brock doesn’t complain, he knows it’s a kind of underlying nervousness too, Jack trying to touch and feel and enjoy as much as he can, worried that they’re going to run out of time if he keeps taking things slow and steady, the way he likes best.

He tells Brock as much, late at night on a mattress in the loft of the cabin, moon shining bright and skin sweat-slick, struggling to catch his breath. He says that he’s lucky, because HYDRA has no love for guys like himself, for men who do their job and do it right, and then go home and go on with their lives. That if anything happens, it’s a quick death for him.

But not for Brock, because Brock is smart and ambitious and maybe a little bit cunning. Because he likes knowing and knowing too much, because he pours all of himself into his job and the wrong kind of people are keeping an eye on him. So if shit goes down, Brock’s not going to be the one with an easy way out.

Brock tries not to think about it as he squeezes his way past Jack to the opposite end of the table, making a point of grabbing a firm handful of ass as he goes. Jack pushes into the touch, huffs a laugh that might be part barely-there moan, and they sit down to eat.

‘What’s on the menu today?’ Brock inquires, clearly content with whatever answer he might get as he piles his plate high with various cuts of meat, with sausages and salads.

‘That’s pork shoulder chops and pork belly. Skewers are tenderloin and onion. This is kaszanka’ Jack explains, pointing to the various meats on the platter.

‘What’s that?’ Brock asks, mouth already full.

‘Blood sausage. Buckwheat, offal and pig blood.’

‘Freaky. It’s good though’ Brock comments, going for another bite, accompanied by a heavy serving of home-made mustard.

They eat in silence, and Brock can’t help but notice the lack of Jack’s usual enthusiasm as he tells Brock about the food, the sudden shift of the mood from playful teasing into a looming quiet. Choosing to leave serious talk for after dinner, he aims his focus at textures and flavours, grimly determined to enjoy the good stuff while it lasts.  

The shoulder chops are cooked just right, juicy but not underdone, with a hint of heat coming from the paprika Jack loves to use for seasoning. There’s a deep, earthy aroma of allspice and herbal fragrance of bay leaf, sharpness of coarsely ground pepper and a slightly bitter tinge of coriander. The pork belly is milder in comparison, fresh marjoram contrasting with the unmistakable taste of garlic, forbidding it from overwhelming the dish. The tenderloin skewers are just on the right side of spicy too, once again rich with paprika, this time smoked, balanced out by the sweetness of accompanying onion. And then there’s kaszanka, heavy with spices and maybe a tinge of cognac, and a dash of sweetness Brock can’t help but think must be blood.

‘Dinner was real good, Jackie’ Brock comments when they’re mostly done, sun having set and porch lights switched on. He reaches across the table to hold Jack’s hand, enjoying the way their fingers fit together. ‘Something on your mind though?’ he asks quietly, unable not to grow worried when all he gets in ways of an answer is the _pop_ of a beer bottle cap and wistful silence.

‘C’mon, up with you and out with it.’ He pulls Jack from his seat at the table and over to the swing, resolutely ignoring its steady creaking, arranging them so he’s sitting up with Jack laid out on his back, head in Brock’s lap.

Brock runs his fingers through Jack’s hair, traces the pattern of scar tissue on Jack’s chin. Rubs circles into his chest and dips his fingers into the hollows of Jack’s collarbones as the porch light flickers and the night hums with the buzz of insects.

Just as Brock thinks they might have to call it a day and head to bed, Jack spills his heart, eyes still closed as if he can somehow shelter himself from the harsh truth of his words.

‘I’m scared. I love you, and I’m scared, because something is coming up, I’m telling you, I know it, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Matter of fact, I don’t want me getting hurt either, because who’s going to look after your sorry ass then, but that’s a secondary concern. I love you so fucking much it breaks my heart sometimes, knowing I could lose you.’

Brock is stunned into silence, at loss for words, because while he knows that all Jack is saying is true, has been true from the very beginning, they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about the danger, about missions gone bad, about secret organisations and black ops. They don’t entertain the possibility of things going wrong, because to talk about it is to make it real, and they don’t want to jinx it, to let some kind of tragic irony of ignorance and impending doom play its part.

Instead, Brock pulls Jack up into his lap, bracing a foot against the wooden deck so that they don’t go falling off the swing in a mess of limbs, both of them knowing full well that aching backs and bad knees don’t bode well for any more rough-and-tumble than strictly necessary. Jack should be too tall, too big to fit into this arrangement properly and yet he moulds himself to Brock like it’s where he was always meant to be.

Brock mumbles a steady litany of _I love you I love you I love you_ against Jack’s chest, and a stream of insistent _We’re good we’re fine it’s all okay,_ like he’s hoping that the words come true if he repeats them enough. He wraps his arms around Jack and holds him like he’s going to drift away if Brock lets go for a second, presses his head against Jack’s chest and takes comfort in the strong, steady heartbeat.

‘I want to grow old with you’ Jack states, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. The confession startles Brock, but only because he's never heard it put so bluntly, the sentiment itself far from foreign.

‘It’s gonna be a while’ he says though, his penchant for vanity forbidding him from acknowledging that it might be happening already.

‘Bullshit. You’ve already got wrinkles’ Jack says as he takes Brock’s face in both hands, rubs his fingers against prominent cheekbones.

‘Do I now? Show me where’ Brock requests, and receives a kiss right in the centre of his forehead. Then two matching ones at the corners of his eyes, crow’s feet there crinkling beneath Jack's lips and not helping in the slightest. Jack follows with a row of pecks over Brock's laughter lines, making his way towards Brock's mouth.

It seems innocent enough until the kisses grow hungry, heated, Jack pushing down into Brock’s lap, grinding his hips in frantic motion.

‘What’cha want, Jackie?’ Brock asks, disappointed to have Jack lift himself off his lap.

‘Wined and dined you already, haven’t I?’ Jack says with that smile of his that always promises a good time as he pulls Brock up and off the swing and back into the cabin, all their worries forgotten just for a while longer.


	6. Naleśniki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naleśniki are thin, crepe-like pancakes, served with a variety of sweet fillings such as jam or quark and raisins.

The pancakes look awful.

Shapeless. Uneven. Somehow both burnt and undercooked all at once. Disgusting. Tragic.

‘Real fuckin’ bad, this one’ Brock mutters to himself as he slides another apparent failure off the frying pan. He’s almost out of batter and all he has to show for how he’s spent most of the morning is the saddest stack of pancakes to ever grace the Rollins-Rumlow household.

‘ _Naleśniki_ ’ he corrects himself, ‘Not pancakes’, as he struggles to conjure the whistling _ś_ sound, his New Jersey drawl still too thick for him to be any good with foreign pronunciation.

Determined to break his losing streak he pours one last ladle of batter into the frying pan, rushing to swirl it around as soon as it hits the scorching surface. Somehow, the liquid mixture is finally content to remain in the pan, not a single drop escaping over the edge. Surprised, Brock lets it cook, shaking the pan every once in a while to determine whether the naleśnik is ready to flip.

As soon as he notices tiny spots appear on the surface, he lifts the pancake up with a spatula, slapping it back into the pan with a bit more force than necessary. He doesn’t dare try flipping his current attempt into the air, the remnants of an undercooked accident stuck to the kitchen floor a grim warning against any such methods.

He transfers the final naleśnik onto a plate, surprised to find that it’s easily the best one out of the whole batch. Nearly circular in shape, with evenly dispersed golden-brown freckles, it looks good. Edible, at least.

One good naleśnik isn’t good enough though. Encouraged by the apparent success, Brock gets started on another bowl of batter.

For the second time that day, he pulls Jack’s copy of _Kuchnia Polska_ , published and printed 1956, out of a kitchen cabinet. The book is bound in grey canvas covers, the spine barely held together with parcel tape. He thumbs through the thin, dog-eared pages, searching for a familiar phrase in a sea of words he doesn’t understand. There’s a few sets of colour illustrations, and he locates the ones with a woman demonstrating the preparation of tartelettes. From there on, it’s a quick trip over the sprawling cursive of Jack’s annotations straight towards _naleśniki_ a few pages down.

The book was a wedding gift, a prized family heirloom, and Brock thinks back to the days before Debra’s passing. Tries to remember how Jack looked as he spent long hours by her bedside, translating and taking notes, converting measurements and writing down replacements for whatever ingredients proved outdated or uncommon. As he struggled to keep the traditions and memories of home safe between yellowed pages. 

Brock’s fingers feel clumsy, too thick and too scarred as he traces the delicate paper, attempting to decipher Jack’s writing. The recipe is simple enough but these days his mind is like a sieve, memory smoked out with the scent of burning flesh, scared away by an echo of screams bouncing against concrete walls, replaced with a desperate urge to survive at all cost.

Gaze flickering between the cookbook and his mixing bowl, Brock prepares the batter, adding more mess to the kitchen counter and another stain to the myriad already present on his black t-shirt. When the mixture is done, he falls back into the rhythm of pouring, flipping and shaking all over again.

He’s pleased to see that the naleśniki are turning out significantly better than the trial batch. It’s nice, Brock thinks, to be good for something again.

When all the pancakes are done he spreads a thick layer of quark over each one, sprinkling it with sugar and adding a squeeze of lemon juice, and a few raisins on top. He folds his naleśniki into neat little triangles, arranges them on a plate with the slightly burnt side strategically facing downwards. Content with the result, he places the plate on a tray next to a mug of black coffee and a bowl of fruit, and makes his way upstairs.

Jack is still asleep, facing away from where the steep stairs reach the loft. It’s midday already, and the sun is shining warm and bright through the single dirty window, illuminating Jack as he snores softly. Just like that, Brock could almost cheat himself into thinking that nothing has changed, that it’s just another one of their end-of-the-month getaways, if not for the mess of welts and bruises on Jack’s back and the way his own spine protests when he reaches the top of the stairs.

Despite everything, Jack is still all elegant lines and lean muscle, thinner now but still so fucking handsome. Brock wants to pounce, to rip away the blankets bunched around Jack’s waist and grab at sleep-warmed skin, to spend the day fucking Jack into the mattress, only taking breaks for coffee and cigarettes.

Instead, he puts the tray down on the nightstand and gently squeezes Jack’s shoulder.

It took a year of burning, of searching and killing, trashing like a feral animal caught in the snares. It took violence, and self-hatered, a crazed mind and bloody knuckles to come back home.

It took finding Jack bruised and broken like he’s never seen him before to relearn to be gentle.

Brock still blames himself for taking too long, but all the trails ran cold and he was so lost himself. It took a visit to an old house in the suburbs, a box of memories wrapped in paper, wedding pictures and novelty aprons and _Kuchnia Polska,_ a scrap of paper with a set of coordinates written in looping cursive. It took blood and sweat and tears, mostly on behalf of one Captain Rogers, one government prison in barren New Mexico desert, and one promise of _‘til death do us part_ for him to set things right, and he’s been trying so fucking hard to make up for the lost time.

‘Jack, Jackie, wake up’ Brock whispers, running his fingers down the slope of Jack’s shoulder.

‘Wake up you lazy bastard, it’s fucking noon already’ he tries when there’s no reaction, and this time around he manages to get Jack to roll over onto his back with a groggy, muttered ‘Morning’.

Brock still can’t get used to seeing Jack like this, his left eye covered with a thick gauze, the other one sporting a nasty bruise and bloodshot sclera. There’s a deep cut down his cheek, slowly knotting itself together to form a scar matching the one on his chin, and another one blooming an angry red along the collarbone.

But underneath all the damage, there’s a familiar cat-like grace as Jack stretches and yawns, bones popping and joints clicking.

‘Made you breakfast’ Brock announces, flashing a proud smile.

‘Bullshit, you didn’t’ Jack replies, and there is no way of telling if the surprise in his voice is genuine or a part of their usual banter. 

Brock doesn’t know if he should be offended or not, so he huffs a quiet ‘How would you fucking know?’, not expecting a shit-eating grin to appear on Jack’s busted face as he answers.

‘Still see a roof above my head.’

‘Oh fuck off, I never burned anything.’

‘You fucking did, you liar. First year you moved in with me, June, I think. Weather was good and you wanted to have a barbecue. Didn’t say anything, seeing as you still had your awful temper back then, but those burgers were burnt to a fucking crisp.’

Deciding not to add fuel to the _bad temper_ argument, Brock settles for ‘C’mon, they weren’t that bad.’

‘If that helps you sleep at night. Now go on, show me what you’ve got.’

Knowing full well that Jack is inquiring about what’s for breakfast, Brock lifts up his t-shirt with one hand and hooks the thumb of the other one in the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing an expanse of burned skin, solid muscle and sharp hips still showing underneath.

Jack turns over on his side, takes one good look, and flops back down, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.

‘Don’t make that face, I know you like what I’m packing.’

Brock tries his best not to laugh at the exasperated groan escaping Jack’s lips.

‘Enough of that, eat your goddamn breakfast now. You’re insufferable when you’re stuck in bed for too long’ Brock declares as he helps Jack sit up against the headboard and puts the tray in his lap, stealing a sip from the coffee mug as he moves it back to the nightstand.

‘You made these?’ Jack asks, and Brock doesn’t recall ever hearing him this incredulous.

‘I did. Got the recipe from Debra’s old book.’

Jack doesn’t say anything, instead taking the fork in his mangled hand, trying to figure out a way to hold it with two fingers mostly gone. He shuffles the pancakes around, presses on them like he’s trying to check if the filling will go spilling out.

Jack has always had nice hands. Long, elegant fingers and large palms, bones and ligaments protruding just a touch. Callouses, from guns and gardening and whatever home improvement project he was working on, a small scar between the index and middle fingers on the right hand, and a dash of unexpected freckles on the left wrist.

Now, they're just scabs and scars, some fingers crudely hacked off mid-length, some gone entirely, the remaining ones missing fingernails. Infection left them twisted and gnarled, and Brock has never seen Jack's hands shake so much before.

‘Something wrong?’ Brock asks, and the realisation dawns on him instantly.

‘Need me to cut them up for you?’ he offers.

Jack resolutely refuses to say a word, the shift in mood almost palpable.

‘Why so sad all of a sudden? Are they that bad?’ Brock tries not to sound annoyed, because he’s not, not with Jack. If anything, he’s angry with himself, his inability to get things right, and he doesn’t want Jack to be on the receiving end of that resentment.

‘It’s fucking embarrassing, all this.’ Jack admits, quiet but firm. ‘You having to take care of me.’

‘You always took care of me. It’s only fair I do the same for you.’ It’s the simplest thing in the world to Brock.

‘It ain’t the fucking same, and you know it damn well’ Jack insist, because apparently Brock doesn’t have the monopoly on being a contrary bastard, not anymore.

‘It fucking is. Remember that time in Colombia, when those FARC bastards cut me up real bad and it got all infected and I puked down your back when you lugged me all the way to evac? Or Crimea, out in the country, remember? Safehouse, wood painted green I think, had a fucking outhouse and you had to carry me cos some Soviet bastard got me right in the kneecaps. How’s that for fucking embarrassing, Jackie?’

Brock surprises himself with his outburst, with the memories flooding back all at once.

‘That was in the field. Never had to do that at home.’ Jack cuts his revelation short.

‘Well there’s a fucking first time for everything and you better roll with it cos I’m not letting you starve’ Brock argues, because he’s tired and exasperated and he wants to make this better but he doesn’t know how.

‘There, now eat your fucking pancakes’ he concludes as he returns the plate to Jack, who manages to stab a fork in a square piece and guide it towards his mouth.

He chews and swallows, oddly thoughtful, and Brock suddenly feels on edge, like this is a test he is inevitably bound to fail.

‘They’re called _naleśniki_ ’ Jack states, and Brock’s heart sinks.

‘And you got them just right’ he adds a second later, and Brock tries his best to hold in all his _you bastards_ and _how dare yous_ , climbing onto the bed and pressing a wet _smack_ of a kiss to Jack’s scarred face, and just like that, everything is alright again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoopsie fuckin daisy this turned out way longer than planned.
> 
> hope y'all don't mind me having too many feelings about food and nastygross old men.
> 
> yes, that '56 copy of kuchnia polska is real, it used to belong to my gran but now lives with me in my flat.


End file.
